


Forbidden Knowledge

by coxorangepippin



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 06:14:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coxorangepippin/pseuds/coxorangepippin
Summary: Yuuri is a witch, in a kingdom in which magic carries an instant death sentence. He keeps it hidden for years, until Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov stumbles upon his secret.Yuuri agrees to teach Viktor all he knows, but will the two of them manage to keep their lessons hidden?





	1. An Offering

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a one shot, which got away from me and ended up as a bit of a monster. I hope you enjoy it! I'm sure there will be odd typos -please forgive them, as I wrote this whole thing in one very intense session, and wanted to publish it before I decide it should never see the light of day.
> 
> Please comment/leave kudos if you enjoyed <3

Fragrant smoke rose softly, curling through the air in attenuated spirals, and winding into Yuuri’s dark hair. _Rosemary for remembrance_ , he thought, inhaling the medicinal sweetness of the burning herbs. _Sage for healing. Lavender for the spirits_.

He picked up the wooden bowl, and began to wave it in front of the small shrine. Carefully, he allowed the smoke to permeate every corner of the small wooden house, breathing deeply and slowly in time with his motions. A small, sleeping poodle that was curled under the table sneezed in his sleep.

_Mum, Dad, Mari_ , he thought. _I am well, and I am happy_.

The smoke seemed to curl more tightly about Yuuri’s body, hugging the soft shape of his figure and tickling his chin.

_I miss you all, every day_ , he thought. _You are not forgotten_.

The smoke curled tighter than ever for a moment about Yuuri’s body, and then dissipated, drifting through the half open window that faced on to dense woods, and winding about the tree trunks like insubstantial lichen.

Yuuri breathed out slowly, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes and standing, rubbing his knees where they had pressed into the reed matting of his floor. He surveyed the room, watching as the final wisps of smoke drifted into nothingness in the still air.

The small wooden house was comfortable, if not large; lived in for twenty years by the same person, it had absorbed Yuuri’s personality. The octagonal wooden walls were hung with black ink drawings of local trees, and rare flowers. The huge wooden table was scattered with books, and one wall was entirely taken up by an immaculately organised selection of dried herbs, with fresh herbs growing quietly and happily on the windowsills. Ceramic bowls half full of tea dotted the shelves, clearly abandoned half way through when the drinker had become distracted. The atmosphere was quiet, sunny; at this late hour, the purple light of dusk slanted through the half open windows, colouring everything it rested on in muted violet and grey.

Yuuri’s eyes drifted over the small space, and came to rest on a small, nondescript cupboard that stood beneath his herb collection. Before he shut the windows, Yuuri peered out of them, stretching his neck as far as it would go to see down the small hard earth lane which led to his house. The dim light of dusk showed no person as far as Yuuri could tell; the only moving creatures that broke the serenity of the moment were the bats, beginning to wake from their daytime slumber and flitting quickly across the darkening sky.

Satisfied, Yuuri crouched carefully in front of the small dark oak cupboard, easing open the door, which made no sound as it swung open to reveal a small cauldron. Yuuri picked up the cauldron, carried it to the table, and began to lay out the herbs he would need for the potion he had been planning to make for a week or so. Quietly, and with many a flick of his eyes to the shaded windows, Yuuri summoned a small fire beneath the pot and went to work.

 

Yuuri Katsuki was a witch. In the small kingdom in which he lived, this was enough to ensure a swift death without a trial, as witchcraft had been banned for close to forty years, and the law was ruthlessly enforced by the King, whose vicious persecution of magic had become a byword.

Yuuri had been alone since the age of six, when the sweating fever had taken his family. From that day onwards, the broken hearted boy had, between wracking sobs, vowed that he would never let another suffer this fate if he could help it. He had been taken in by and trained for years with the ancient town herbalist, learning every aspect of the local flora, learning when to pick gentian and thyme and yarrow, how tarragon could bring strength to the body and borage strength to the mind.

When the old herbalist had died, he had left his practice and his home to Yuuri, along with all its contents. Yuuri had continued to live in the octagonal wooden hut, providing the townspeople with remedies and cures when he could, and consoling them in their grief when he could not. One day, exploring the tiny unused attic space with the thought of turning it into somewhere to store the autumn crop of apples, Yuuri had come across books that he had never seen his mentor use; books covered in strange symbols, and cramped archaic writing. He had spent many nights deciphering their meaning. When he had finished, Yuuri realised that he now possessed the means to learn magic.

He fully intended to put the books back and never look at them again, mindful of the decree banning all magic use, but that autumn sickness had come up from the lowlands, and the villagers had begun to fall ill, one by one. First the old and the infirm, then the children, and finally the young and the strong. The illness wasn’t always fatal, but Yuuri sat up for too many nights beside the beds of those who wouldn’t see the morning.

One night, after sitting with a young mother who would never see the dawn, Yuuri had come home exhausted, dashing tears of impotent fury from his eyes. His herbs and cures were helping, but they weren’t enough. He knew he had the means to save people; he couldn’t bear the sight of any more young children, reminding him terribly of himself, asking where their parents were. He had stayed awake for many nights, teaching himself by candlelight the forbidden arcane knowledge his teacher had unknowingly left him; when he shut the final book, several nights later, he did so with a determined spirit and an iron will that no more of the people he nursed would be taken by the black god of death.

That had been the starting point. That autumn the sickness had slowly disappeared; there had been no more deaths. The villagers, and those living in the castle nearby, had put it down to luck and providence, but the exhausted and pale Yuuri had smiled, knowing that it was not down to the impenetrable workings of chance that the sickness had finally left them.

From then on, Yuuri had practiced magic by night, always by night, allowing the velvet darkness to cloak his incantations and his potion making. Slowly, he had gained in proficiency, until he had memorised everything in the books, and had begun to experiment with his own cures. The villagers praised Yuuri’s herblore, calling him their saint, their saviour; no one ever suspected him, the quiet and sunny-smiled botanist, of being anything more than he presented himself to be.

And so that evening found Yuuri measuring dried herbs, pure water and some hair from the local deer into his cauldron, chanting softly and rhythmically, while a blue flame burned steadily beneath the pot. Fumes began to rise from the cauldron, permeating the air as his earlier ritual had; after several minutes of this, Yuuri ceased chanting, and poured the dark green liquid from the cauldron into several small glass bottles, stoppering them and storing them along with the cauldron in the dark oak cupboard.

He flopped down into his easy chair, stretched his arms above his head, and yawned. Magic was tiring, not physically but in a deep part of his soul, and Yuuri was looking forward to collapsing into bed in the loft above the main room.

Suddenly, the still night air was broken by the sound of pounding footsteps, and the heavy breathing of someone running faster than their body was meant to run. Yuuri sat up, startled; moments later, there was a heavy pounding on his door. The poodle that had been soundly sleeping sat up, barking, adding its noise to the heavy pounding din.

“Yuuri! YUURI!”

He flung himself out of the chair, and wrenched open the door, his dark eyes wide and startled.

“Nishigori?” Yuuri gasped. “What’s happened?”

“It’s….it’s Yuuko” Nishigori gasped between panting breaths. “The baby…it’s on the way, and something’s wrong, something’s not…”

Yuuri’s eyes widened fractionally, and he dove back into the house, emerging a minute later clutching a bag and, if anyone had been watching, one of the small stoppered bottle containing a dark green solution. His poodle stayed at his heel, nearly tripping him. They ran towards the distant sound of cries which split the still air, fear lending them speed.

 

When Yuuri got back several hours later, exhausted but so, so happy ( _triplets! All healthy! And Yuuko…Yuuko was safe_ ), he didn’t notice that the door of his small, dark oak cupboard was slightly ajar.

 

***********

 

Viktor Nikiforov, Crown Prince of Belaria, was bored. He was painfully, excruciatingly, world-endingly, cosmically bored. He had breakfasted with his uncle, the King, and spoken of inconsequential happenings throughout their kingdom. He had killed a few hours tending to his beloved horse, Makkachin, and then had brutally murdered some straw training dummies in the outhouses (they hadn’t put up much of a fight). And now, as always when he had nothing better to do, he found himself wandering the castle library, the high ceilings lined with books stretching away above him and promising diversion if he could find the hidden gems scattered among the armour-and-swordplay periodicals.

Viktor paused in his slow perambulation, and reached out an elegant, pale hand to the ladder that would allow him to reach the top shelves, pulling it to the very end of the stacks. He quickly, lithely ascended the steps, and retrieved a well-worn, small blue book from among the huge ancient tomes, along with a much larger leather bound book.

Holding both carefully, he leapt down from the top of the ladder (anything, _anything_ to provoke some small adrenalin rush) and hurried past the tall shelves to a hidden bay window, surrounded on three sides by book stacks. Seating himself elegantly in a tailor’s seat on the cushions in the bay window, he carefully positioned the smaller book within the open larger book, and angled both so that anyone approaching would see only the cover of ‘Comportmente For Gentle-menne’. Thus positioned, Viktor opened the small blue book, and for the hundredth time, began to read.

An hour later, he sighed, and closing the small book, leant his head back against the cold grey stone of the window frame. _Magic_ , he thought. _Real magic_ , not the pitiful show that his uncle’s Fool put on, with wands that turned into flowers and coins that appeared from behind ears.

Prince Viktor had not been alive when his uncle had instituted the ban on all magical practice in Belaria. His parents had died when he was barely one year old, taken by the sweating sickness that had carried off so many in the town; Viktor had been left with only a confused memory of laughter that sounded like bells, and a man’s deep, rich voice. His uncle had taken him in; his wife, the Queen, had died in childbirth some years earlier, and the baby had perished with her. He had treated Viktor not as his own son, but much as he treated every other occupant of the castle; with a chilly indifference. Viktor had been afraid of him as a young boy, thought he wasn’t any more; the King stood as tall as Viktor did now, his iron grey hair kept in check by the iron grey crown that rested on his head, his dull robes always in shades of black and brown. Not a warm figure; not someone that Viktor could ever grow to love. He was not a popular King; his taxes were harsh and his rule strict, and Viktor had seen more than one supposed traitor locked in the dungeons to rot before he reached adulthood.

So Viktor had grown up wandering the cold stone halls alone, his long silver hair reflecting the light of the rush torches that burned all year round in the perpetually chilly castle. His uncle had largely left him alone, apart from a daily gruff enquiry into his studies at meals; his nurse had raised him, and been mother and father to him, teaching him what he would need to know as the future ruler, and educating him in the histories of the land.

Viktor had, when he was young, been particularly entranced by the stories of magicians and wizards and dragons, such as the one he now hid within the large volume of proper deportment for princes; he had asked his nurse to tell him stories of the days before magic had been outlawed. His nurse, a kind, gentle woman, had always refused, saying that it was just a lot of old fairy stories, and that his uncle would be most displeased to hear him asking such questions. However, one day when Viktor had been very ill with a fever, and the herbalist and his apprentice (such a sweet, quiet boy) had done everything they could, she had given in to his illness-slurred pleas. She had told him of the old days, the days before the Queen had died, when magic had been freely practised, and unicorns had still lived in the forest. She told him of firework shows that lasted for hours, forming glittering flowers and meteor showers in the sky; of potions that could cure any fever, and wise old men who knew the secrets of the stars. Viktor’s wide, illness-dry eyes had stayed fixed on his nurse as she talked, mouth slightly open in wonder. She had then told him of the Queen’s illness in childbirth; her may hours of pain, and her eventual death, which magic had been unable to fix or to help with. She told him of the hardening of his uncle’s heart, the rage which he had unleashed on the magic users who had failed to save his wife and child, and his subsequent ban of all magical knowledge and use throughout the kingdom.

But then, Viktor had reached the age of sixteen, and his uncle had decided it was time for him to take his education into his own hands, instructing him in the princely arts of sword-play and riding. His nurse had been sent away, and now lived in the village; Viktor often snuck out of the castle after he had said goodnight to his uncle to go and sit with her, the woman who was his real family.

Now at the age of 23, Viktor reflected, his life seemed to have reached a stopping point. His uncle no longer taught him, having passed on everything he felt Viktor should know; they had nothing in common beyond their mutual appreciation of horses, and Viktor saw him only at mealtimes, in which they had little to say to each other. Viktor was grateful that his uncle had taken him in, grateful that he had made him his heir, and aware that his was a position of enormous privilege; but, Gods, he was so _alone_.

As he had been reading in the window alcove, the last of the day’s light had slipped away. Viktor turned his head to the glass, wanting to look across the moat to the woods beyond, but saw only his own reflection; pale, aristocratic features, with an elegant swoop of silver hair perpetually brushing into his crystalline blue eyes. A strong nose was contrasted by a wide, sensitive mouth; from looking at his face, one could guess that this was not a man to be crossed, but neither was he a man who would ever refuse a laugh if it presented itself to him.

Staring at his own reflection, Viktor mused. Was the magic his nurse had told him of real? Had it ever been? Was it all just stories that his uncle had banned because they distracted the populace? He pictured himself as a knight in a tale, fighting a mighty dragon; and snorted at his own folly, causing a small cloud of condensation to form and blurring his reflection.

Abruptly, Viktor unfolded himself from the alcove, and slid the books back into place. His ruminating had reminded him that it had been some time since he had been to see his nurse, and he had decided to go now, that minute, rather than waste any more time on his own pointless speculation.

Twenty minutes later, Viktor was walking the narrow earth path that led to the village, having decided that on such a perfectly still night he didn’t want to shatter the peace by riding. His silver hair was covered in a dark green hood; he preferred not to be recognised as the prince in the village, as it meant that he would spend hours having people being polite at him and then cursing his uncle as soon as he left, and his hair was much too distinctive to leave anyone in any doubt who he was. He hummed a tune as he walked, his light tenor winding into the darkness and becoming part of it.

As he approached the village, he looked for his nurse’s house, but saw that the windows were dark, the door bolted; no one home.

Viktor sighed, resigned to a long walk home after a visit for nothing, but then a cry rent the air, sounding like a woman in terrible pain. Seconds later, a tall, burly man came sprinting out of the house; within the three minutes it took Viktor to run closer to the noise, he had returned with a second figure, who disappeared into the house followed by a small dog, leaving Viktor with only a brief glimpse of dark hair and darker eyes before he was gone.

The cries abruptly ceased. In the darkness, Viktor walked closer to the building, and managed to catch a brief silhouette of a woman lying on a bed, clearly in the midst of a very difficult labour, outlined against the firelight. Viktor, disgusted with himself for seeing such a private moment, immediately retreated and began to walk through the village, loathe to go back past that house and be thought a tourist to the woman’s pain. He wandered further into the deepening darkness, unable to bear the thought of going back to the castle, where he knew that the only diversions waiting for him were his books and his horse and his own thoughts.

Aimlessly, Viktor followed the track as far as it would go, coming to the edge of the wood, and listening to the soft calls of owls and the skittering of bat’s wings. He had never been this far into the village, seeing it only on feast day, from the back of his horse.

Looking around him, he saw a small path that led off into the darkened trees. He followed it curiously; it skirted the edge of the forest, crossed a small stream, and finally ended at a small octagonal wooden house, overhung by ancient willow trees and surrounded by thick roots that wove together to form natural cobble stones, waiting to twist the ankles of the unwary.

Viktor paused, intrigued. The house looked so natural, like it had grown out of the roots without the help of human hands, that he felt himself an unwanted intruder into the small clearing. He wandered closer, wondering what sort of person could live in a place like this; surely someone extremely unusual, maybe someone as old as the willow that brushed the roof, or as twisted as the roots which wound around the path beneath his feet. Waking silently closer, sensing instinctively that he ought not to break the quiet of the clearing, Viktor peered in through the shaded window, trying to glimpse the inside of the house for clues about its occupant.

However, despite the warmth of the evening, the window was tightly shut and had cloth pulled across it, making the inside of the house invisible to Viktor’s inquisitive eye. Viktor walked slowly across to the door, the mystery of the place making him more curious than he had been in a long time. His mind seemed to sense what he himself could not consciously know; that here, in this house which he had never noticed before, was the key to adventure, and the thing which might give his life some of the meaning and direction that it was so painfully lacking. Pausing only for a minor quibble of his conscience (which Viktor quickly squashed, mentally pointing out that as the Crown Prince he was permitted to go anywhere his subjects did), Viktor pushed open the ancient wooden door, and softly stepped inside.

The inside of the room was dim, but not dark, and smelled of medicine. In the gloom, Viktor could make out a disordered sort of industry; clearly, the occupant was not at home, and was passionately interested in herblore. Viktor walked closer to the drawings covering one wall. Large and detailed, they depicted the local flora, and they were drawn with an accuracy which Viktor could only assume came from a lifetime’s study. Turning, he inspected the cabinet that took up another wall; it contained dried herbs, and seeds that had been sorted by some logic that Viktor couldn’t fathom.

He looked at the wide, wooden table; was that a burn mark? A careless candle, maybe?

Suddenly, his conscience smote him. He was in another person’s house, and no matter how pointless his own life was to him at present, he did not have the moral right to invade someone else’s without their knowledge. Turning to leave, Viktor’s eye was suddenly caught by a small cabinet, made of what appeared to be age blackened oak. He found it strangely compelling; the weathered door called to his fingers, and Viktor found himself stooping to softly open the door.

Inside was a cauldron.

Heart beating fast, Viktor told himself that this meant nothing, that plenty of people thereabouts used cauldrons for mundane purposes; cooking, smithing. _But_ , whispered a small vice in his head. _This house. This cupboard_. _It was a hidden cauldron. What it if isn’t mundane at all? What if…?_

Mouth dry and silver hair falling into his eyes, Viktor lifted the cauldron out of the cupboard, and reached in to grasp what was stacked behind it. Books. Ancient books, their writing clear as day to one who spent his leisure hours in the library. The title shone up at him, picked out in silver on the ancient leather binding. ‘ _Ars Magica_ ’. His brain, schooled as it was since childhood in the classical languages, supplied a translation without conscious thought: _The Magical Arts_. Viktor’s heart beat so loudly that he was sure it would be audible from the castle itself. He had just moved to open the book to the first page, his fingers shaking with excitement, when he heard in the distance the sound of an infant squalling. The sound grew louder, then faded again, as though a door had been opened and shut. And, coming closer as Viktor listened, there were quick, purposeful footsteps.

Viktor’s mind raced. He quickly and carefully replaced the book, and the cauldron, and was already turning to leave when he pushed the door of the cupboard to. Heart hammering against his ribs, he flung himself out of the door, and sprinted (narrowly avoiding turning an ankle on the blanket of roots) behind the wide bole of the willow that hung over the small house, from which he could see the front door. Pulse throbbing in his ears, Viktor waited; the footsteps quickly approached, and before another minute had passed, a figure had appeared on the darkened lane, walking more slowly now in sight of home, shadowed by a small dog.

Peering out from behind the willow, Viktor saw the dark hair and eyes of the stranger he had seen earlier, who had run to the woman in pain. Now seen for more than a few seconds, Viktor could see that the mans face was round, and soft; he had a determined chin, a rounded figure, and shoulders that were hunched in exhaustion.

Viktor slowly and silently let out the breath he had been holding. _Beautiful_ , his mind supplied.

The man paused at the door, and as though sensing Viktor’s gaze, turned around for a moment, eyes searching the darkness for the hidden watcher, felt but not seen. The dog sniffed the air questioningly, its bright eyes looking at the man as though trying to communicate something. Viktor pulled his head back behind the tree, and tried to slow his breath to an inaudible rhythm.

Evidently dismissing the sensation of eyes, the man turned and walked into the small house, followed by the dog; moments later, light bloomed behind the covered windows. Viktor slowly and silently edged around the willow, and as softly as he could walked through the cover of the trees out into the wide main lane.

The journey back to the castle seemed to take only minutes. Viktor’s racing mind compelled his feet to keep up, and before he was aware of what was happening, Viktor had crossed the drawbridge and practically flown back up to his chambers.

There, he flung himself on to his bed, the wide open window showing him the full moon as it hung above him. Witchcraft, Viktor thought. Witchcraft. It’s real.

And, for the first time in what felt like years, he felt excitement coursing through his blood, an addictive rush which made his breath come faster and his cheeks flush.

His last thought before he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep was of the witch who lived in that tiny cottage, with his fathomless eyes and his perfect drawings of flowers.

Tomorrow, Viktor thought.

Tomorrow I will go back.


	2. Tomorrow

The morning had dawned bright and warm, promising longer days and heat to come. Yuuri, in his loft, had been rudely awakened by his familiar, Vicchan, a small poodle, stepping on his cheek to let him know that he was wasting daylight when he could be making food. Groaning, Yuuri had complied, heaving himself out of bed and washing in the nearby stream, and feeding himself and Vicchan. 

The previous night had been exhausting, but exhilarating; he would go and check on Yuuko and the children later that day, when they had had a chance to rest. That morning, Yuuri found himself at a loose end; his stocks of all the important herbs were full, and the rarer ones which needed replacing could not be picked until the evening. He had already made sufficient amounts his cure-all potion the night before to last for several weeks, and it didn’t keep longer than that anyway, so he couldn’t make more of it.

Eventually, it was his puppy that decided him. Vicchan had been frisking about his feet all morning, evidently desperate to play now that the good weather had returned.

Yuuri could never resist his poodle, which he thought might be inappropriate for a witch’s familiar. He had found Vicchan alone and injured in the village one evening, and had taken him in; but he had a nagging suspicion that a familiar ought to be more dignified, more imposing, less likely to lick your ankles.

Yuuri capitulated to the shining, pleading eyes, and sat down to play Vicchan’s favourite game, which would also give him a chance to train his mind magic. Sitting in a cross legged position on the floor, Yuuri faced his poodle, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and rhythmically. He focussed inward, towards his soul, looking for the bright pool at the centre of his being which was his magic. He called it towards himself, welcoming the bright flare of welcome he felt behind his closed eyes as he grasped it in his mind.

Opening his eyes, he looked up at Vicchan, whose tail was wagging so hard in anticipation that it was causing his whole body to wriggle. He sent the magic across the space between them, seeing it in his mind’s eye as bright white tendrils that looped around his dog, and slowly lifted him into the air. Vicchan whined with delight, waggling his paws towards the slowly retreating ground, and Yuuri smiled. He was getting so much better at this; only a few years ago it had been all he could do to lift a leaf an inch into the air on a windy day. He allowed Vicchan to drift higher, the dog barking with overwhelming joy, until he was about six feet in the air; he then slowly began to bring him back down, testing his control. The warm summer air swirled around him, and he smiled as Vicchan drifted toward the floor.

Suddenly, a knock on the door sounded like a gunshot, shattering the moment. Yuuri lost his concentration, and Vicchan fell the remaining foot to land on the floor, looking most displeased at the turn his favourite game had taken.

Yuuri leapt up, trying frantically to compose himself, and opening the old wooden door, and Vicchan ran under the table, sulking at his fall.

Standing in front of him was a tall, powerfully built man; he was not large, but every inch of him seemed to be covered in lithe muscle. His eyes were a piercing blue, and his hair….

Yuuri gulped. His hair was the trademark silver of the Nikiforov family. This, then, could only be the Crown Prince.

On his doorstep.

The Prince smiled, and in a light, attractive voice asked “May I come in? I have a matter of some importance to discuss with you.”

Viktor’s heart was beating fast- this was the moment. The one in which he would find out that magic was really real, that he would find a teacher, that he would finally learn what had been his obsession since his nurse had told a fever-drenched small boy tales of unicorns and fireworks.

Yuuri wordlessly stood aside, and the man ducked into his cottage, looking utterly alien in the well known surroundings. Yuuri’s mind raced. He hadn’t brought the guard, that much was clear, so he wasn’t about to be arrested. The Prince had smiled; he didn’t seem angry. Yuuri guessed that rumours about his prowess with herbs had spread to the castle through the servants, and that the Prince had come with some embarrassing ailment which he did not want his own physician to know about; that must be it. Yuuri drew in a slow breath, closed the door, and turned around, trying to smile pleasantly as though he had not been within an inch of being caught in a fatal mistake.

The Prince seemed to be waiting for him to speak, but Yuuri’s voice (and mind, and sense) seemed to have deserted him so he simply stood expectantly, staring at this ethereally beautiful apparition that stood on his worn rush mats as though they had an appointment.

The Prince, apparently sensing that Yuuri was not about to introduce himself, coughed and held out a pale, elegantly long fingered hand to shake.

“I am the Crown Prince, Viktor Nikiforov. May we sit? I wish to speak with you.”

Yuuri, whose mind was still frantically trying to process what on earth could be happening, gestured silently to the nearest wooden chairs, leaving the Prince to lower his outstretched hand and instead seat himself easily at the wooden table.

The Prince watched him intently, as though trying to memorise his face.

“Do you have a name?” Viktor asked, apparently realising that Yuuri was not going to volunteer this information.

“…Yuuri. My name is Yuuri Katsuki. I am honoured, I mean I am grateful, I am most grateful for your visit, Prince Nikiforov…..” Yuuri’s voice faded into the silence, trailing off like a question.

The Prince waved an elegant hand, as though dismissing Yuuri’s nervousness, and said “Please, call me Viktor. I have come on a matter of some delicacy, and I wish you to understand that I am not here in my capacity as Prince, but rather….” Now the Prince’s voice trailed off, as though he was unsure how to pursue his enquiry.

Yuuri, finally mustering the courage to speak, said in an unsure voice “If it is a medical matter, sire, then I hope that I can help you. You need not worry, I am quite discreet.”

The Prince stared at him for several seconds, surprised.

“No, no. It isn’t that.”

(Then what? Yuuri wondered. What is happening here?)

“I wanted to speak to you because I know you are a witch. And I want you to teach me.”

The silence that followed the pronouncement billowed around the room, roaring in Yuuri’s ears, whilst his stunned brain attempted to process what the Prince had just said. He realised, as he stared at the Prince’s face ( _why was his expression hopeful?_ ), that his life was on the line here. This must be a trap.

Yuuri’s words, so hesitant until now, began falling over themselves in his terror.

“No! NO! I am not a witch, I am only a herbalist, I know that there might be some confusion as I deal in medicines, but magic is banned, magic has been banned for decades, if I were a witch I would be killed, I would be burnt, you know this your majesty, please do not accuse me of such…”

The Prince held up a hand, stopping Yuuri’s panicked denial mid flow.

“You are not a witch, you say.” said Viktor, in a measured tone that nonetheless held a hint of repressed excitement.

Yuuri, dumbstruck, simply nodded.

Viktor looked at Yuuri’s face, carefully. He saw the terror in the dark eyes which had filled his dreams last night, he saw the utter determination to deny it until death in the rounded chin, and he realised that He realised that it was going to take something drastic to convince this stranger to give him what he wanted. And oh, how he wanted it

“Very well, I believe you.” Said Viktor, carefully dropping the words into place like pebbles in a still pond, their ripples spreading precisely so.

Yuuri’s face immediately lit up, and he began to stammer his thanks. Before he had got more than a few syllables out, however, Viktor stood, and Yuuri’s words ceased in surprise.

Viktor’s mind was whirling. He needed this to be true. Needed to know what Yuuri had to teach him. And he could think of only one way to force Yuuri to give him what he needed. He hadn’t wanted to do this, hadn’t wanted to give himself away, but it seemed that it would be necessary.

Walking slowly towards the small cabinet, Viktor watched Yuuri’s eyes widen and his pulse beat in his temple, harder with every step that Viktor took. He crouched down, sung open the cabinet door, and reached behind the cauldron to draw out the book he had seen the night before.

Yuuri’s face was ghostly pale, his hands shaking.

Viktor dropped the book on the table, the incriminating title ‘Ars Magica’ glinting cheerily and innocently in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

Yuuri blanched as the book hit the table with a soft thud. He stood, straightened his spine, and looked Viktor directly in the eyes. If this was his end, he would meet it with bravery.

“Are you going to have me executed?” Yuuri asked, his voice gaining quickly in surety and strength “I have saved countless lived with this book. I prevented the autumn sickness that killed so many from killing more. I kept a young woman alive last night who would surely otherwise have died, and now her three children will grow up with a mother. I did the right thing, and your uncle is wrong to ban magic, WRONG!” Yuuri’s voice rose to a shout, and Vicchan hid further under the table. “I lost my whole family!” Yuuri continued, his voice rough with sincerity. “And I know you did too, because they talk about it in the village! If magic had been allowed, they would still be here, and I wouldn’t be risking my life every time someone comes to me and begs me to keep their relatives from the black god before their time! And if-“

Viktor again held out a hand to stop the tirade, this time in a gesture of peace, his fingers quivering slightly with nervous excitement.

“I know,” he said, his voice husky and low, “And I agree. My uncle is a misguided man who has allowed the pain of loss to harden his heart beyond the point of reason. His grief has made him unjust. But I want to learn- I want…” Viktor stood up and began pacing, his soft shoes making little noise on the rush mats, his voice becoming faster and lower as he finally divulged the plan that had begun to take shape in his mind before he had even been consciously aware of it, before he had ever seen Yuuri’s cottage. “I want the return of the old days, of the glories that magic could bring, and the restoration of all we have lost. I want you, Yuuri, to teach me everything. Please. I will work hard, and I will make my uncle see sense. He won’t execute me, even if he realises I am using magic, as I am his only heir. Then he will see sense, and the ban will be lifted!”

His voice rose in a ringing crescendo, and finally Viktor fell silent, his plan shared, his secret spilled. He looked at Yuuri, who still stood motionless a few feet away from him. Yuuri’s face was utterly closed, his emotions unreadable, but his mind was a maelstrom.

Yuuri realised that his secret was now known, by someone who could easily have him executed for it. And yet, as he stared at Viktor’s shining expression, he saw the sincerity which was written in every line of his perfectly carved face, and which shone from his crystal blue eyes. He realised that, even if he really had no choice in his answer, Viktor’s plan was a good one. It stirred long abandoned hopes of a world in which he wouldn’t have to do magic by night, under cover of darkness, but freely, in the daylight. A world in which he could save people without having to pretend that it was just his skill with herbs, but in which he could openly admit the forces beyond himself, the miraculous blessing which allowed him to heal.

Steadying himself with a hand against the table, Yuuri looked up into Viktor’s intense stare. He knew this moment would change his life, or end it.

“Yes,” Yuuri said slowly. “I will teach you.”

Viktor held out his hand again, reaching across the empty air between Yuuri and himself, almost pleadingly. Yuuri reached up, and gripped his hand firmly, never breaking eye contact. In that moment, as their hands touched, both knew that a bond had been forged which would change their futures irrevocably; and neither knew whether the change would be for good or ill.

 


	3. Lessons

Viktor’s fateful visit was now three months past. Yuuri had (almost) recovered from the near heart attack Viktor had given him, and was no longer living in mortal fear that Viktor would have him killed every time he entered Yuuri’s house. Viktor always announced his presence with a unique knock (three slow, three fast) so that Yuuri would know it was safe to answer the door with his magical equipment still on the table.

Viktor, for his part, had never felt so alive. His lessons with Yuuri had opened part of the world to him which he had never known, but had been looking for since he was a child; he finally felt as though the deathly tedium which had gripped him for years had been dispelled, and he could breathe freely again, as a man with a purpose.

The lessons had gone well; Viktor had finished the basic principles, and had progressed to helping Yuuri with potions, and learning the different properties of the herbs that grew around the cottage. Aside from a few accidents in which Viktor had nearly set fire to Yuuri’s hut, and one memorable day Viktor had accidentally turned Vicchan an eye-smarting shade of green with a spilled potion, Viktor had progressed rapidly, eager to learn and quick-thinking. Viktor had also had to hide on a few occasions when villagers had come seeking Yuuri’s help, as he couldn’t be seen spending every day with Yuuri; as soon as someone knocked on the door, Viktor would dash upstairs, and sit silently with his heart hammering until the visitor went away.

Yuuri had, surprising himself and Viktor, taken to teaching as though born to it; he was stern and thorough, but kind, and adamant that Viktor master the basics before he progressed to what Viktor always referred to as ‘the exciting stuff’.

As their lessons had continued, their friendship had grown slowly along with their trust in each other. Yuuri found himself longing for Viktor’s unique knock on the door; Viktor found himself running the Yuuri’s cottage faster every day, to spend more time there before his uncle expected him home for dinner. Luckily for Viktor, he was largely allowed to come and go without restriction, his sole duties consisting of meals with his uncle and the occasional meeting with the King and his advisors.

On the first really autumnal day of the year, when the warm air that had sat over the small wooden hut had been dispelled by a brisk breeze, Viktor arrived at Yuuri’s hut with his usual smile in place, and his heart lighter than air (although he wasn’t sure why). He rapped on the door in the agreed pattern ( _knock…knock…knock…knock-knock-knock_ ) and as soon as his fist had tapped the last note, the door had opened, and Yuuri was standing in the doorway, his face lit with a smile that Viktor had begun to see behind his eyelids when he shut his eyes at night (although he hadn’t yet understood what this might mean). Viktor’s heart accelerated, and Yuuri beckoned him through the door into the now achingly-familiar octagonal room.

Viktor immediately dropped into one of the wicker chairs surrounding the wooden table, and smiled his heart shaped smile up at Yuuri, who promptly dropped the mug he was holding and immediately dived to pick it up, his face flushed with embarrassment. (Yuuri, too, had begun to see the blue of Viktor’s eyes everywhere he looked. He had accidentally mixed it on his ink palette the other day when he was attempting to do a botanical drawing of a marigold flower, which was in fact a bright shade of yellow. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with him these days).

Yuuri, now with his back to Viktor, stated in his soft voice “Today’s the day you’ve been waiting for, I think”.

Viktor leapt up from the chair, his eyes shining. “Really? Today? You think I’m ready?”

Yuuri brought the tea to the table, smiling, and set it down, nodding as he did so. “Today, Viktor, we will start ‘the exciting stuff’.”.

Before Viktor’s mind caught up with his actions, he flung his arms around Yuuri, and pulled him close. Dimly, his mind noted the soft perfection of Yuuri’s body in his arms, the sage-and-rosemary scent of his hair, and the way he seemed to fit perfectly into the shape of Viktor’s shoulder. And then, he noted that Yuuri had gone utterly rigid, unmoving and shocked, and he realised that he had just utterly disgraced every etiquette teacher that had tried to tell him such passionate displays were only for children and your spouse.

Viktor let his arms fall, stepping away as though Yuuri had burned him. Yuuri simply stood there, still unmoving, with an expression of shock frozen on his face. Though Viktor was unaware of it, Yuuri had just had the most startling realisation.

Shaking himself as though getting water out of his ears, Yuuri sat down at the table, and Viktor joined him, Vicchan curling up to sleep by his feet.

“Yes, today, we will begin mind magic, which is what you think of when you hear the stories your nurse told you.” Yuuri’s soft voice was compelling as always, and Viktor leaned closer to listen, his eyes wide. “Because mind magic is the most dangerous, and has the most potential to be used for evil, it is the last thing you are meant to learn. You will, once you have mastered it, be able to levitate objects (Vicchan’s ears pricked up at the word ‘levitate’), summon fire, direct the air, and even touch the spirit world. But first, you have to learn the most essential element of mind magic; meditation.”

Viktor and Yuuri both sat, cross-legged, on the rush mats that covered the floor. Yuuri lit a small bowl of cedar and sweetgrass, murmuring to Viktor as he did so “Cedar, for protection from any evil spirits, and sweetgrass for connection to the earth,” and allowed the smoke to fill the room.

Viktor breathed deeply, allowing the scent to empty his mind, as Yuuri softly instructed him “You are a lake. You are still water, and any thoughts you have are only passing ripples. “

Yuuri’s soft, low voice and the scent of the herbs were oddly hypnotic. Viktor breathed in, out, in, out. He felt his mind emptying of all thought; he pictured himself as the deep, blue pool he had once found when hiking in the mountains near the castle.

“That’s right, Viktor,” said Yuuri softly, his vice weaving in between the smoke and sinking into Viktor’s mind more as a thought than as a sound. “Now, turn your vision inwards. Look within yourself. Every living being has magic, even if they don’t know it. Look for the centre of your being, and fall into it.”

Viktor allowed Yuuri’s voice to lead him, through his mind, into the layers of himself. He felt his external identity falling away, and fell through the water he had made himself to the centre of the lake, where a pool of icy blue fire was sitting, tightly bound into a sphere.

“Now,” Yuuri’s voice instructed, "call it towards yourself."

Viktor tried. He mentally called the fire towards himself, coaxingly. Nothing happened. The fire was still tightly curled into a perfect sphere. Viktor called more forcefully. Still, nothing changed in the strange liminal space he had created within himself. Growing impatient, Viktor ordered the fire sharply to do his bidding, as he might a recalcitrant chamber made. It flew towards him in a sudden, sharp movement, and-

A sharp **crack** broke the hypnotic moment, as a small bowl on the shelf near Viktor’s head cracked in half and then showered outwards in a spray of earthenware chips. Viktor’s head whipped up, startled out of his centre, and he found Yuuri giggling softly. He scowled, unamused.

“I had it! I nearly had it!” he growled, dispelling the last of the dreamy stillness along with the herb-smoke.

“I know you did,” Yuuri said, still laughing quietly, “You did much better than me my first time round. I nearly took the roof off the house. You just ordered your magic like a noble might a servant, and that’s not really how it works. You have to _feel_ your magic as part of you, like another limb, not as something you command as an inferior.” Apparently noticing Viktor’s still less than impressed face, Yuuri added “Keep practising. I didn’t expect you to get it this first time. You did very well; like any other skill, you’ll have to keep practising. However, I’d prefer it if you only practiced here where anything you blow up won’t be noticed by a curious servant.”

Viktor sighed, acknowledging the justice of this, and stretched out of his sitting position, feeling cramping in his legs. He looked out of the window, and realised that evening was fast approaching. “We’ve been doing this longer than I realised- I’d better go before my uncle misses me,” he said “But, I will be back, same time tomorrow, and I will do better.” Viktor’s silver eyebrows were furrowed with determination, and he looked as though if all it took to learn magic was willpower, he would be able to move mountains.

Yuuri just smiled his soft smile, and stood up, placing his herb bowl back onto its shelf.

Viktor stood up too, and walked towards to the door. Before he got there, though, he turned, and walked back towards where Yuuri stood.

“Thank you, Yuuri,” he said softly, “for everything. You’ve shown me something that I didn’t think I would ever find, and don’t ever think I’m not grateful to you every day you spend with me.”

Yuuri blinked at him, and reached out a hand to grip Viktor’s shoulder, wordlessly.

Viktor found it hard to tear himself away, but he turned and walked to the door, saying lightly as he did so “And tomorrow, I promise not to magically destroy any of your possessions!”

Yuuri’s laugh followed him out of the door, making Viktor himself grin as he set out, back towards the castle and away from his secret sanctuary.

 

If either Viktor or Yuuri had been laughing less loudly, or had been able to tear each themselves away from the other’s face, they might have had the sharp intake of breath that came from behind the willow at Viktor’s parting sentence, or the quick patter of feet that disappeared into the underbrush at the edge of the forest.

  
*********  


That evening, Yuuri went through his daily ritual of remembrance and love. _Rosemary for remembrance_ , he thought. _Sage for healing. Lavender for the spirits_.

As the smoke coalesced around his body, he smiled, feeling the warmth where it tickled the bare skin of his neck.

_I realised today_ , he thought to the smoke, _finally. It took me long enough. You’ve been trying to tell me, haven’t you?_

The smoke swirled and seemed to flicker in front of his eyes, with the pattern of a laugh.

_I know, I am slow. It took him holding me for me to realise. But better late than never, and I promise that I will tell him tomorrow. A teacher cannot be in love with his pupil, after all._

The smoke flickered, and then started to dissipate, and Yuuri realised that his time was up.

_I love you all, and I miss you every day,_ he thought. _Goodbye for now_.

As Yuuri stood up and began to put away the lavender, the sage, and the rosemary, there came a harsh knock on the door. Not the rhythm he was used to. Not the rhythm that he had been hoping for. Vicchan hid under the table, his tail not wagging, his ears flat to his skull.

“Yuuri Katsuki!” came a harsh voice from outside. “Open up, in the name of the King!”

Yuuri’s face became bone-white. His hands shook. He knew that this could only mean one thing. He walked slowly towards the door, his feet feeling as though they weighed a hundred pounds, his stomach turning to lead. He reached for the door, and slowly, painfully slowly, pulled it open.

The torches the guards were carrying burned yellow streaks into his eyes after the darkness of his cottage, a dreadful presentiment.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” said the guard who stood at the head of the group, his helmet marking him as the senior officer, “You are under arrest for witchcraft, and for the enchantment of the Crown Prince.”

As Yuuri was dragged from his cottage, his numb mind could only encompass one thought. _Viktor_ , he thought. _VIKTOR_.

And finally, his terror wrenching loose from his mind, he screamed.

“VIKTOR!”

  
*************

 

On his way home from the cottage that evening, Viktor thought deeply. He thought more deeply than he had ever done before, never having been prone to introspection, and certainly never having experienced the emotions he had done today when he had held Yuuri before. He was abstracted all through dinner, excusing himself early to go to his room and think, his Uncle staring suspiciously at him as he left the table.

He sat in the bay window, staring up at the moon, and the realisation which had begun that day settled into his bones, lying close to his centre like the deepest truth he would ever know.

_Oh_ , he thought. _Oh_.

Lying back on to his bed, Viktor felt the words he had been suppressing for a month or more finally make their way from his subconscious brain to his thoughts. He pictured Yuuri’s smile, the way his brown eyes were flecked with gold, the sound of his laugh and his silence when he worked. The quietness that belonged only to the two of them, found in sun-dappled woods on summer afternoons, and the feel of Yuuri’s soft body held closely to the hard lines of his own, a revelation in touch. _It’s love_ , he thought, _it’s love I’ve been feeling_.

He tasted the words in his mind.

_I am in love with Yuuri Katsuki_.

And the sound of them, the feel of them was so natural and so utterly right, that Viktor knew they were true.

Rolling on to his bed, and lying on his back with his arms flung out above him, Viktor felt his universe align around Yuuri, and felt certainty.

_Tomorrow_ , he thought, _I’ll tell him tomorrow. A pupil can’t be in love with his teacher in secret, after all_.

As Viktor fell into a deep sleep, holding his new knowledge close to himself like a blanket against the darkness, he didn’t hear the shouts of the guards as the lowered the drawbridge, or as they returned.

In his sleep, Viktor thought he heard his name from a great distance, and rolled over; but he slept on, under the watchful eye of the moon, and didn’t wake.

 


	4. Burning

Viktor was woken the next morning by a commotion, and the sound of shouts drifting in through his open window. He stirred, half awake; but before he could make sense of the sounds, his door banged open on its hinges, and four guards walked in. They stood to either side of the door, looking stern; to Viktor’s just awake brain, this was incomprehensible. Then, his uncle, the King, entered his room, which he had not done since Viktor had been very small and still cried at night for his parents (his uncle had not come to comfort him, but rather to instruct his nurse to quiet Viktor’s noise).

This shocked Viktor into complete alertness. “Uncle…” he said, voice shaking with uncertainty, “What…?”

His uncle regarded him with a stony eye, and finally spoke.

“We arrested a witch this morning. Soon, the execution will take place.”

Viktor’s heart turned to ice. Surely, surely, it couldn’t be….

He tried to maintain a stoic expression, while his heart beat a frightening rhythm against his throat, threatening to choke him.

“Ah. And who…?”

The King stared down at him, disgust evident in his gaze. “Someone we have reason to believe has enchanted you and caused you to take leave of your free will. The herbalist. Yuuri Katsuki. He is being tied to the stake as we speak.”

Viktor was on his feet and running towards the door before he had consciously chosen to stand. The guards blocked his way, forming an impenetrable barrier.

“NO! No, uncle, you have it wrong, Yuuri is no danger, he hasn’t enchanted anyone-” Viktor’s breath was fast, his words tearing out of his throat as through desperate to reach the air.

The King still gazed at him, his lip curling. “See, this is what magic has wrought. You have taken leave of your senses. You try to defy my justice, and you pit yourself against your own family for the sake of this devil. You will be locked here until the execution is over; you will be free then from whatever spell he has you under.”

As he said this, the guards marched backwards out of the room, and the King drew out a heavy iron key from his belt. Viktor ran towards the door, desperate fear clawing at his heart, but the door slammed before he could reach it, and he heard, with a cold finality, the lock sliding shut, and a key being turned.

Viktor threw himself at the door, beating it with his fists and feet, as he heard the retinue leaving down the spiral staircase that led to his room. But his door was age blackened oak, harder than steel, and several inches thick; the lock itself had existed for centuries, and was impassable, designed to keep whole armies out if it had to. Viktor flew to the window, sobs tearing hysterically out of his throat, their sound lost in the frantic beating of his heart. He knew what he would find; the window was sixty feet in the air, with a sheer wall all the way to the floor. There was no escape there. As Viktor stared, horror-struck, at the ground, he saw just out of full view in the corner of the courtyard a crowd gathering. And then he heard the terrible, slow beat of the execution drum begin. Viktor threw himself again at the door, the wall, his fists now leaking blood as he beat them against the walls, anything, _anything_ , please, _PLEASE_ -

His fist came into contact with empty air, where he had expected solid stone, and his heart seemed to stop beating for a moment. He lifted the tapestry that had covered his wall for as long as he could remember, feverishly grasping at any shred of hope-

A keyhole. A keyhole in the wall, a small stone missing where it was hollowed out, unnoticeable unless you felt for it. His blood seemed to roar in his veins. There was a keyhole, and if there was a keyhole, there was a door. And if there was a door, there was a way out. He knew the castle was honeycombed with secret passages, but he hadn’t known about this one.

But, Viktor realised with a sickening jolt, he didn’t have a key. And suddenly, Yuuri’s voice came to him, from yesterday which seemed several lifetimes ago- _You have to feel your magic as part of you_.

Viktor stopped pounding against the wall. He didn’t have herb smoke, or Yuuri’s hypnotic voice to help him this time. He looked inward, frantically searching, and found what he was looking for. He dropped into the centre of himself, faster than he had before, and felt his magic calling to him. He raised an arm towards the door- he picture his magic extending through the keyhole and then-

With a decisive _snick_ , the door swung ponderously forward on its hinges, revealing a set of spiral stairs which headed straight down in the direction of the main doors. Viktor, pausing only to grab his sword, sprinted into the darkness without hesitating, hoping with every fibre of his being that he would be in time.

In the distance, the execution drum continued to sound. 

**********  
  
Yuuri felt the ropes around his wrist, felt the rough wood of the stake pressing into his back. He looked around him in terror at the faces of the crowd; Nishigori was there, tears running down his face in a silent stream, and many other villager that Yuuri treated. He knew their names, their faces, their secrets and their histories, and now they were here to witness his death. They were all staring, horror-struck, frozen in panic, at Yuuri, unable to look away, unable to help. The King was standing at the edge of the crowd, raised up on a dais, his ceremonial sword glittering on his hip and his implacable eyes reflecting the weak sunlight.

As the execution drum continued to split the air with its mournful rhythm, Yuuri saw a man with a black hood approaching, parting the crowd as he came. With a sickening jolt of finality, Yuuri saw that he carried a torch.

Tears began to run down his face, as the torch-bearer drew ever nearer, and Yuuri knew that these were his last few minutes on earth. He had seen death; as a doctor, he know it in many forms, but now he was confronted with the reality of his own, he couldn’t seem to comprehend what was happening.

The tears flowed faster, as Yuuri saw the man approach to the edge of the pyre. The torch grew closer and closer to the edge of the wood, until finally, it caught.

As the flames leaped up, Yuuri closed his eyes, not wanting to see them leaping towards him, eager for their job.

_Mum, Dad_ , he thought. _Mari. I’ll see you soon._

And as the heat grew unbearable, and Yuuri began to feel the scorching flames flickering towards his feet, he had one final thought.

_Viktor. Viktor. I love you_.

 

*************

 

Viktor saw the smoke before he saw the crowd. He had run out of the tunnel, his feet and his heart pounding in an awful synchronisation of terror, and seen the black smudge against the sky. His heart grew colder, and he feared he was too late.

He reached the edge of the crowd, unable to see the pyre, unable to see Yuuri, knocking people out of his way as he ran. Finally he saw it- the stake, Yuuri tied to it, his face soot blackened and tear streaked.

Viktor didn’t hesitate. He threw himself into the flames, deaf to the screams and shouts of the crowd and the guards, and flung himself towards Yuuri. Yuuri turned his head, saw Viktor coming, and gasped- and Viktor felt his heart grow warm again, Yuuri was alive, he was _alive_ , there was still hope, there was still time. Feeling his clothes beginning to catch, Viktor hacked at the ropes binding his love to the stake, and as the heat grew unbearable, he hauled Yuuri away, dragging them both over the quickly increasing flames, and leapt the final few feet to freedom carrying Yuuri with him.

Yuuri fell to the ground, coughing, blackened with smoke, but mercifully still breathing.

Viktor stood in front of him, sword drawn, facing his uncle and the guards who had started forwards at his appearance, and drawn back in horror when he had plunged into the pyre.

“SEIZE THEM,” came the bellowed command of his uncle, and the guards uncertainly began marching toward their prince.

“No.”

Viktor’s voice was cold and hard as ice, and rang like a hammer striking steel.

The guards paused, cowed by his authority and his rage.

Viktor turned and addressed the crowd.

“This is Yuuri Katsuki. He has delivered your children. He has calmed your fevers. He has saved many of your lives, and _this_ is how you repay him? You would watch him slaughtered as his reward?” Viktor’s ice blue eyes stared out at the villagers, who looked at each other uncertainly. Then, from the back of the crowd, movement. Nishigori had forced his way through the crowd, and came to stand beside Viktor, his back to Yuuri, placing himself between him and the guards.

“He saved my wife, and my children,” Nishigori said with iron conviction, “And I will stand between him and death.”

Another man walked forward, placing himself next to Nishigori. “He saved me when I had the sweating sickness.” He stated into the still air.

As though a dam had broken, the villagers began moving forward, forming a human barrier between the guards and Yuuri, surrounding and enveloping him and Viktor. Yuuri had managed to stand, shakily, on his feet, still coughing- he looked around him in amazement.

And then, one guard broke ranks and moved to stand with the villagers. He murmured to those around him that Yuuri had nursed his mother when she was dying, and that she had had no pain, only peace. Another guard followed him. And another, and another, until the entire contingent of soldiers were gathered around the village people in a ring of protection.

Viktor stepped forwards. “So you see, Uncle, the magic which you have condemned, which you have persecuted, has saved more lives here than you had any idea of. You must see that your hatred for magic for failing to save the life of the Queen has made you blind. Please, listen to reason and spare the man who has healed so many of your subjects.”

The King was standing alone on his dais, his eyes narrowed, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “So, you are all under the enchantment. You’re all under the thrall of this devil in human shape.” The King drew the sword and advanced towards Yuuri, the blade flashing in the sunlight. “I shall have to deliver you all from his devilry myself.”

Viktor saw this man, this King, who had given him a roof over his head but no kind words, who had fed him but had starved his loving heart. He saw him advancing towards the man who had given him laughter, warmth and light, and knew that he had already made his choice.

Before the King could get close to Yuuri, another blade flashed in the dim sunlight, and Viktor held his sword out between his uncle and Yuuri. “I don’t want to fight you, uncle,” he said softly, “But I will not let you hurt this man.”

There was a moment of silence as the two of them stared at each other. And then they began to pace, the crowd instinctively moving out of their way, as they stalked back and forth, testing each other’s defences.

“I taught you to use a sword, boy,” the King growled, “Do not think you can win if you are foolish enough to fight.”

Viktor said nothing, his eyes tracking his uncle’s footsteps, his own body moving at the same pace. His Uncle suddenly lunged forward; as the blade flashed towards his face, Viktor realised that his Uncle was duelling to kill. They began to fight, each thrusting forward and parrying with a deadly elegance. The crowd was silent around them, no one wanting to distract the two fighters for whom distraction would mean death. Yuuri’s face was white, his knuckles clenched over his mouth, his eyes dry and terrified. He was alive, but now Viktor was in peril, and his heart screamed  _better I had died than him_.

In the dance of death that had every eye locked on the combatants, there was a sudden flash, and a scream, and a spurt of blood. Viktor had wounded his Uncle in the shoulder, and one of the King’s arms now hung limp and useless.

“Please, Uncle,” Viktor spoke into the silence as the King’s pain-laboured breathing grated into the air, “I do not want to hurt you. Please, just agree to rescind the order of execution and we can end this now.”

The King snarled in reply and lunged forward again, his blade angled for Viktor’s neck. There was another flash, a dull thud-

The King lay dead in the dust at Viktor’s feet, with a bloody wound across his neck. Viktor stared down at him, knowing that he ought to feel remorse, or at least that he ought to feel something. But all he could feel was a sort of dull ache in his temples, and the shaking of his limbs as the adrenalin left his body. He bent down and closed his Uncle’s eyes. There was complete, unbroken silence as the crowd absorbed the gravity of what had just happened.

“Have his majesty’s body placed in the chapel,” Viktor spoke into the silence. The guards came at his command, lifting the King on their shields and carrying him through the castle gates. Viktor turned, seeking the only pair of eyes he wanted to see.

Yuuri was already stumbling towards him, and as he fell into Viktor’s arms, the ice that had encased his heart since he had seen the guards crash into his room that morning finally melted. They held each other for a few moments, silent tears coursing down each of their faces, until they became aware of the watching crowd.

Yuuri turned to look at them, his heart too full of gratitude for their protection to speak. He managed to rasp “Thank you”, before he succumbed to his silent sobs and was unable to speak.

Viktor too looked up towards the crowd, noting each face in it, and echoed Yuuri’s words; “Thank you.”

As though his words were a signal, or a rallying cry, the eerie silence was finally dispelled in a roar of shouts and conversation as the people began to chant, as one, ‘Long live the King! Long live the King! Long live King Viktor!”

As Viktor held Yuuri’s hand tightly in his own, and tried to smile at the people chanting his name, he knew that whatever the future now held, he at least wouldn’t be facing it alone.

 

**********

 

Viktor pinched the bridge of his nose and wrinkled his forehead. Looking across the immense desk in front of him, he saw that the pile of paperwork which he had been working on for hours was still at least half unfinished; groaning and stretching, he stood up, making a mental note to remember to reassess the harvesting methods that his kingdom was using, and momentarily forgetting that he had a poodle asleep on his feet. Vicchan woke up, grumbled at Viktor for a few moments, and then stood up, staring towards the door.

Following his gaze, Viktor saw framed in the doorway the one who still, after four months of marriage, made his heart beat as frantically as the first day he had met him. Yuuri was smiling softly, wearing a long dark blue robe which brushed the ground.

“Ah, Yuuri,” Viktor called, trying to sound the part of the beneficent monarch, “And how are the children?”

Yuuri stopped leaning on the door frame, and came into the study, which was situated in the widest and airiest tower.

“They’ve just managed to set fire to the blackboard,” he reported in his soft, amused voice, “and they have learned that they are able to do it intentionally, and claim it was an accident. I am considering resigning as head teacher.”

Viktor beamed his heart shaped smile, the one that made Yuuri’s brain turn to pink fog and his thoughts twist into a muddle.

The magic school had been open for three months, having been Viktor’s wedding present to Yuuri. Run in the castle, Yuuri was both the head teacher and only teacher, but only for another few days; by the next week, he had several more teachers, and about thirty more students arriving to join those from the village, drawn from across the land by the proclamation that magic was no longer forbidden, and that the castle was opening as a centre of magical learning.

“If you retire, will you have more free time?” Viktor hummed, closing the distance between himself and his husband and taking both of Yuuri’s hands in his own. “Perhaps, for dinner with your charming husband this evening?”

Yuuri paused, pretending to consider, as he eyed Viktor’s roguish smile.

“I’m sure I could be persuaded…” Yuuri said, allowing the sentence to curl suggestively into the air between them.

“In that case…” Viktor murmured, closing the last few inches between their faces and capturing Yuuri’s lips with his own. Heat raced through his veins; Viktor still hadn’t learned to find Yuuri’s kisses ordinary, and he doubted that he ever would. They sent sweetness spiralling into his heart, and fire racing across his skin.

“Are you persuaded?” Viktor breathed, drawing back reluctantly, his face inches from Yuuri’s own.

“Almost.” Yuuri’s tone was challenging, and it made Viktor’s hair stand on end in anticipation.

Vicchan found himself shut out of the room, and whined for a moment before running to the kitchens, where they were kinder to dogs. The paperwork found itself flung to the floor unceremoniously. And Yuuri, laughing, found himself gently placed on the desk, as Viktor resolutely kicked the door shut behind him, blocking all view of their now entwined figures.

And Viktor thought himself very close to heaven.


	5. Epilogue

Yuuri’s hand, wrinkled and spotted with age, smoothed the blankets away from himself as he lay in his bed. Always on the left hand side; even though the other side of the bed had been empty for months now, Yuuri couldn’t sleep any other way. He reached out a hand for the cold, empty sheets, knowing that it wouldn’t be long now.

Yuuri thought about his seventy years of marriage, and all that he had achieved. He thought about the school, now the Katsuki Academy, which had grown and grown until it was the premier college of magic in his hemisphere. He thought about the kingdom, more prosperous under Viktor’s rule than it ever had been, and of the festivals, and of his wedding day, blurred together in his mind in a swirl of sound and colour and overwhelming joy.

I couldn’t have asked for more, Yuuri thought. He remembered Vicchan, his familiar, still missed so many years later. He remembered the early lessons with Viktor, the way Viktor’s eyes had sparkled as Yuuri had opened the forbidden knowledge to him and given his life meaning, even as Viktor had unknowingly done the same for Yuuri.

Yuuri’s eyes were beginning to grow dim. He brushed his white hair out of his eyes, and lay back among the pillows, feeling as though he were drifting into velvet blackness, and knew that it was time. His last thought was of Viktor, and how he had been waiting to join him for too long now. Yuuri smiled, and the soft darkness closed over him.

 

********** 

 

Yuuri opened his eyes. Above him, a wooden ceiling; around him, the familiar smell of herbs, and the distinctive tang of the tea he always drank. He was….but how could he be…?

He sat up, and looked around, first noticing his hands: whole, unblemished, and young. He was in the wooden cottage that he had called home for twenty years. His drawings were still on the walls, and the pot that Viktor had exploded still on its shelf. As he thought Viktor’s name, a sound broke the silence that made Yuuri’s heart stand still.

_knock…knock…knock…knock-knock-knock_

Yuuri hadn’t heard Viktor’s knock for decades.

He leapt out of his easy chair, and sprinted towards the door, heaving it open with breathless anticipation.

A small ball of fur rocketed into the cottage, and somewhere in his mind, Yuuri cried for joy that his familiar had returned to him after so long.

But his eyes were riveted on the icy blue gaze of the tall, beaming man that stood in his doorway, his heart shaped smile as youthful and full of love as Yuuri remembered.

“I heard you know magic,” Viktor said. “Will you teach me? We have all eternity together, after all.”


End file.
